


Dinner with the Mayhem Twins

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:18:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4473776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Shoot prompt- Established Relationship. Root has been away on a mission for a week, so John and Shaw are forced to pretend to be on a date to keep an eye on their latest number. Root comes back early and can only listen in on the "date" from the subway with Harold. She gets jealous and starts saying passively aggressive comments to both of them. It doesn't help Root any that they are now trying to rile her up. When they get back, Root kisses Shaw and says, "Mine" while Shaw says, "All Yours"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner with the Mayhem Twins

Root's heels click sharply as she walks down the mildly crowded Manhattan sidewalk, hips swaying from side to side with each step, arm traveling back and forth at her side. Her chin is held high with authority, dark black hair cut short to her head as she makes her way down the street like it's a runway and she's the star model. But that's what she was supposed to be, wasn't it?

For the past week, Root had been walking just this way down a tight black strip, strobe lights flying in dizzying patterns as her cover, Claire DeFeint, modeled anything thrown her way for Milan fashion week. It was tiring, her schedule agonizingly busy, and don't even get her started on the one-size-fits-all platforms.  _My feet will never forgive me._

However, none of this was important. What was important was that Tory Burch had successfully been protected from a band of not so friendly competitors, and Root was able to return back to the Big Apple three days ahead of schedule.  _The things people will do for fashion_ , Root muses to herself, feeling an icy splash of wind hit her bare legs. The dress she has on is short, fanning out with an uneven trim mid-thigh, and it seems to ride ever higher with each step. The ebony material is met with random splashes of translucent color, only coming to life beneath the city lamps. As another gust hits her, she tightens the sheer shawl's front buttons before bringing a hand dressed in a silk glove to the edge of her dress, smoothing it down. From somewhere in the darkness, Root hears a splitting whistle and a cat-call, but ignores them entirely as she sees her stop.

* * *

 

An excitement she hadn't felt in days floods her veins and she smiles, bright white teeth peeking out past black cherry lips. Trying to keep her pace even, Root can feel the magnetic pull of the subway station dragging her forward, and she can barely hold herself from running to the entrance. Finally, after what seems like endless hours, she slips- unnoticed- into the subway's tunnel. Here, her footsteps echo like bullets on metal walls, breath loud like howling wind in her ears. She slings the leather purse up higher on her arm before smoothing out the front of her shawl. From only a few feet ahead, she can see flaxen light washing out a large rectangle of space, its golden glow bathing the ground in inviting warmth. It's like walking into Paradise.

As soon as the light touches her cheek, Root feels a wash of relief spill across her face, and she closes her eyes, relishing the feeling of being back. The squeaking of a rolling chair greets her, and she turns her head swiftly to the spot, eyes once more alive. At seeing the spiky hair and dark glasses sitting down before a computer screen, Root can feel the heat of a cheery fire glowing in her eyes, smile widening as she tilts her head to the side, handbag clasped between her fingers.

"Hi, Harry," she greets, amiable purr rolling from her tongue, cool smirk washing over her features as she reads the surprise in Harold's movements. Swiveling in his chair, his eyes land on her, and he smiles.

"It's good to see you again, Ms. Groves," he replies, looking her over with delighted and curious eyes. Behind their hardened azure hue, Root can see a hint of shock flare up. "Tory Burch," he says, voice hushed in a sort of awe.

"She let me keep it after I pulled a gun on a body guard," Root informs him casually, a crinkle in her nose as she shrugs her shoulders.

"One of a kind for the show, I'd assume," he remarks, a wonder in his eyes as the multitude of colors shimmer in the reflection of his glasses. "It's quite remarkable." Root lets him gawk a moment more before picking up pace once more, feet warning that they will not hold up much longer.

"Would you like to  _wear_  it?" Root offers smartly, plucking the earwig from its perch. His eyes narrow.

"No," he replies shortly, turning back to his computer screen with a flaring temper. "Is it  _wrong_  for me to admire good  _work_?" He mutters, and Root lets a smile slip while his back is turned.

She brings a hand to the top of her head, pulling off the dark wig and letting her hair spill like a dammed up waterfall across her shoulders and down her back. She runs a hand through it, roughing it up and allowing it to stretch before dropping the wig down on the seat of a plastic chair, entering the subway car. The first thing she does is lose the shoes. She barely takes a step in the door before they are tossed to the edge of the wall, and her feet instantly seize up on the icy ground, cramps and knots whining miserably. She looks down at them with a sympathetic wince before stripping herself free of the form fitting dress and useless cover-up, walking to the large locker placed against the wall in close to nothing. She inhales a deep breath, lungs no longer cramped inside a ribcage forbidden to expand, and head no longer overheated from the mass quantities of unbreathable hair on her head.

"So where are the Mayhem Twins?" Root asks casually, although, a flutter flitters about in her chest. She hadn't seen Shaw since she'd left, and oversea calls were dead on their private network. However, she'd sent Shaw a message after landing on home soil, but had yet to receive a reply.

"They are out for dinner," Harold replies, turning. Upon seeing her, he snaps his head back to screen abruptly, an uncomfortable aura spilling from him. Root fights through an amused smile as she grabs a spare set of jeans and long sleeve shirt from the cabinet, beginning to dress.

"What did you guys order?" She asks, voice muffled as the shirt slides down over her mouth. "I'm  _starving_." A silence fills the space a minute, and Root begins to button her jeans when Harold's response makes her freeze.

"They aren't going for takeout, Ms. Groves." Slowly, and with a curious expression, Root finishes dressing, slipping on socks before padding back out to the terminal. Her mind hadn't stopped reeling.

"Then what  _are_  they doing?" She asks, and he spins to face her, serious gaze met by the nervous half-twitch of his lip.  _Whatever he's about to say, I'm not going to like it._

"They are having dinner. Together. For a-"

" _Together_?" Root cuts him off, eyes widening. "As in a  _date_?"

"No, it's for a nu-"

"How long have they been  _out_?" She asks, voice verging a demand. Harold, seeing his explanations will only be cut off by her random bursts of question, sighs. Reaching back across his desk, he protrudes a slim headset not unlike his own, and holds it out to her. She looks from him to it and back, then takes the set, sitting down in the chair beside him and laying her feet- to Harold's irritation and near mortification- across his desk.

______\ If Your Number's Up /______

"You see our guy?" John asks in a low voice across the restaurant table. He rests his hands against the stainless white table cloth, leaning in slightly so that his voice doesn't travel.

Sameen Shaw's eyes flicker up over her menu to the booth three back, where she takes in a dark bearded man in a grey suit.

"I got 'em," she replies quietly, eyes flowing back to the list of endless food selections. Her freshly manicured nails click noisily as she subconsciously taps them against the table. "Do you see the waiter?" She asks, not looking up. "I could use a drink." John rolls his eyes, a slight shake to his head as his fingers trail along the glistening silverware in front of him. His eyes move about restlessly. He takes in the high ceilings of the space, the multitudes of people in fancy attire sitting at equally ravishing tables, all chattering aimlessly. He looks to their table- at the cloth napkins, wine glasses of water and dim candle centerpiece- then up at Shaw. Her eyes glance up at him, and she places the menu down before her, eyes narrowing slightly.

"This dress is  _killing_  me," she grumbles, hand adjusting the hook at the back of her neck. His eyes canvas her attire, the single-strap lacing around her neck, meeting in a teardrop to the rest of the charcoal dress, which is solid save for the long slits on either side of her, rib cage to hip.

"You  _look_  good," he offers, a humor in his voice as he can feel Shaw's iron clad stare lock onto him icily.

"Eyes up, John."

At the sound of the familiar voice, both John and Shaw connect eyes, sharing an equal amount of surprise- and dread.

"They're at the ceiling, Root," John lies back, and a quirk of a smile touches the corner of Shaw's mouth. "Not sure how much higher you want them."

"You can leave 'em there," Root responds, enough seriousness in her joking tone to give John reasonable pause.

" _Root_ ," Shaw breathes out in a warning tone, and nearly sees a coy smile forming on Root's lips.

"Hey, Sweetie," Root coos warmly, all hints of hostility gone. "Miss me?" Shaw catches the amused smirk on Reese's face and sneers.

"Now's really  _not_  the  _time_ ," Shaw informs her between clenched teeth, an annoyance creeping into her countenance.

"How come?" Root asks, a pout in her voice.

"I'm at  _dinner_." The two hear a cruel puff of laughter through the line, and share an oh-boy look with their eyes.

" _Yeah_ ," Root replies slowly, kind demeanor strained. "Harold told me  _all_  about that..." There is a pause, and both John and Shaw wait patiently for Root to pick up once more. "How is it?"

"It's fine," Shaw responds, clicking her teeth. From across the table, John gives her a mock-appalled glare.

" _Fine_?" He asks indignantly. "I thought things were going pretty well for a first date." Shaw can hear the sharp hitch of Root's breath, undoubtably wound by the comment, and a wicked smile sparks in her eyes.

"I've had better," she replies. He casts his head slightly downward her way, eyebrows raising, and she gives a short nod, smirk appearing on her lips.

"Well, the night's still young," John responds, giving her a crooked smile. His response is met by a forceful cough on the line, and the quiet but distinct sound of a disproving tisk.

"It's not  _that_  young," Root replies flatly. Shaw opens her mouth, about to respond, when the waiter finally makes his appearance.

"Good afternoon," he greets them in a pleasant but professional tone. "My name is Derek, and I will be your server. May I start the two of you off with something to drink?" John looks from Derek to Shaw and back before lifting his menu.

"I'm ready to order, if that's alright," John tells him, starting to hand the menu his way. His eyes lock back on Shaw's, gaze like a tornado warning. "How about you, Sweetie?" Shaw can feel her stomach drop, a flutter of butterflies ticking her throat as she holds back a hearty laugh.

" _Sweetie_?" Root practically bellows in their ears, voice incredulous and ready to kill. Shaw can hear a disbelieving squeak emit from Root, then stupefied silence. She feels a smile as it screams to be heard, but pushes it away into a locked room with no key. She keeps her gaze entirely neutral, body language relaxed- she'd never had such a hard time keeping control of herself before.

"I'm ready," Shaw replies, each syllable calculated as to not crack character. She hands her menu over to the man, who takes it from her kindly and places it under his arm with the other.

"Don't you think you're taking this ' _date_ ' thing a little  _too_  seriously?" Root asks as they try to recite their meal choices. Her voice is sharp and oozing with jealousy, making it all the more impossible for Shaw to think straight.

"Uh, ma'am? You're order?" The waiter asks, concerned eyes on her as she pulls away from the sound of Root's voice. However, just as she begins to speak, Root's insistent tone spins her off track once again.

"Can the two of y-"

Shaw brings a hand to her ear, swiping the piece off as she pretends to fix her hair, giving the waiter a small but warm smile. "I'll have the House Steak, and a Coke; thanks." There is an odd glint in his emerald eyes as he jots down the drink, but without saying another word, he is gone.

'You turn your wig off?’ John mouths across the table to her, and she nods. 'She's  _pissed_.' Shaw smiles, able to imagine the fluster on Root's face as she can only listen in.

'Keep going,' Shaw informs him, then dials her earwig back up.

"-urn it off for?" Root asks John, disgruntled.

"You were  _distracting_  me," Shaw answers for him, and there is a half-beat of silence before Root picks back up.

"Good." Shaw rolls her eyes, but stops, seeing the devious look in John's eyes. She waits, impatient with anticipation, for him to relay the plan. He gives her a look that says  _'Follow my lead'_  and she replies with an agreeing nod.

"Hey,  _Shaw_ ," John says, voice conversational. "Look over at the couple to your three o'clock." With a casual roll of the neck, Shaw lets her eyes linger in that direction, only to see an empty table. A Cheshire Cat grin begins to take shape on her features.

"They look cozy," she remarks, and he nods, laughing smile in his icy blue eyes.

"Think  _we_  should do that? For the mission, of course." Shaw can sense Root's response before she even hears it.

"No-"

"Yeah," Shaw answers, cutting Root off and allowing her voice to spill with what she hopes sounds like affection.

"Okay, bring your chair over here then," he tells her. Encasing her fingers under the bottom of her wooden chair, she scoots it back and forth a few times, coming to a stop in the same place she started.  _But Root doesn't know that._

"What  _exactly_  is that other couple  _doing_ ," Root asks with an icy edge in her low growl, jealousy coming off of her in infuriated waves. However, the two at the table ignore her, knowing it will only rile her further.

"Like this?" Shaw asks.

"No, your hand goes here."

"Her hand goes  _where_?" Root pokes in, yet is ignored once more.

"Oh, okay. Better?"

"Perfect," John replies, shooting Shaw a wink from across the table. "Okay, here comes someone," he says in a near whisper, eyes directed past Shaw. From a long, floor-to-ceiling string of mirrors on the far wall behind him, Shaw can make out a woman approaching from a few feet away. "So, how's dinner so far?" He asks her, eyes lit with enjoyment. Shaw only takes a split second to think of what to say, and how to say it.

"It's  _wonderful_ ," she replies, bringing a slight gush to her tone. "Just like you." At once, there is a loud slamming like something has smacked down against the subway station's tile floor, and something like chair wheels screech back. Shaw closes her eyes, lips pressed together as a smile comes to them, all the while her shoulders give a slight shake in silent laughter. From across the way, John has his elbow resting on the table, hand covering his mouth to silence a chuckle.

"Perhaps it would be best if you gave me back your headset, and you could take Bear on a walk for me," Harold rushes out quickly, not taking a single breath. Root gives a contemptuous snort. There is the minute pop of a microphone being covered.

"Like  _Hell_  I will," Root hisses, voice muffled as it is picked up through Harold's head set instead of her own, and Shaw- opening her eyes- shares a mental high five with John from across the table.

__________\ We'll Find You /__________

Root finds herself pacing across the subway station, walking past the desk, turning on her heel, walking past the desk, turning on her heel, walking past the desk... It's a rhythm of uninterrupted thuds, as each time she takes the same amount of steps. It's the only thing predictable in her life, but it's about to drive her awol.  
  
Sameen and John had finished their dinner, never once ceasing to share playful innuendos and provocative come ons, and Root can feel the steam billowing from her ears at the mere thought of it.  _He called her Sweetie_ , she fumes to herself, eyes narrowing. Whether they were egging her on or just playing the part, she could not tell, but despised both options. Her sock-muffled footsteps smack louder against the ground as her jealous fluster mounts.  _If I didn't go to that stupid fashion week, this wouldn't have even happened._  And what she heard wasn't even the half of it.

What she could hear was bad enough, sure, but what she  _couldn't_  see was worse.  _'No, your hand goes here,'_  she mimics to herself in a crabby tone, eyes smoldering as they focus not on what's in front of her, but what could have happened then.  _Where did her hand have to go, and why did it have to go there? Why did they have to act so squishy, was the fact that they were two people alone at a fancy restaurant not enough to assure their status?_ She could envision Shaw's coy smirk and John's lit eyes as the two sat there, doing God knows what. And she couldn't even get a single camera feed to ease her mind. No, her imagination was fed by every attracted tone in Shaw's voice and every advance from Reese's lips. _I swear, when I see him, I'll-_

"Ms. Groves, are you alright?" Root comes to an abrupt halt, Harold's concerned voice jarring her from her thoughts. She turns stiffly to face him, mechanical smile plastered to her face.

"I'm perfect," she replies with false cheeriness.  _Just like where Shaw's hand was. ‘Perfect.’_  She adds to herself with a flare of sass, eyes burning like the flames of Hell as her tongue rolls over her teeth in annoyance. She begins her pacing once more, focusing as hard as she can on counting the steps.

They had picked up shop as their number slipped away from his booth, all lines of communication switched out with radio static. It leaves an irritation in the back of Root's mind, and it's not only worry for her girlfriend and friend that brings it. It's what they could be saying that she can't hear. That she can't interrupt or intervene. _It's bad enough I don't have eyes in there_ , Root grumbles to herself, spinning with force on her heel before stalking back across the room.  _The last thing I need it to not have ears in there, too._

However, in speaking of the devil, Root hears two sets of slightly elevated breathing from her headset. Surprisingly enough, it doesn't bring her any ease.

"So nice of you two to  _join_  us," Root greets, voice unamused and trimmed with irritation.

"Our guy was a runner," John replies, breath hard with the words. "Couldn't have given us a heads up on that one, Finch?"

"I didn't think he would r-"

"I sure hope running was  _all_  you were doing," Root cuts in with a venomous tongue, words biting and all directed viciously at John. Harold turns to look at her with a scrutinizing gaze, and she gives her shoulders a defensive shrug. She hears a light laugh from John, and the hair on the back of her neck bristles.

"The number's safe," he says to no one in particular, but not assuring Root in the slightest. She stops her pacing, facing the computer screen before plopping back down in her seat furiously.

"How about  _you_ , Sameen?" Root asks, unable to keep even a bitter ounce of accusation from her tone. " _You_  safe?"

"I'm good," she responds, voice coming in her naturally calm tone.  _Revealing nothing._  Through the headset, Root can hear the hungry howl of wind from the outside, and remembers just how icy it was on her bare legs. The mere thought sends an involuntary shiver down her spine.

"Uh, Shaw," John says to her, voice carrying softly over the icy breeze. "Your hair is kinda..."

"Where?" She asks, and Root can feel a sickening unease wriggling like worms in her stomach.

"It's- it's about-  _here_ , let me get it," he answers at last, and Root sits up in her chair, ears pricked and all senses on alert as she tilts her head, trying to make sure she's hear correct. There is a slight shuffle in the white noise, coupled with a silent, breathy laugh Root can only identify as Shaw's. Her jaw tightens.

"The mission's  _over_ ," she all but spits. "You don't have to pretend to be a  _couple_  anymore." She's leaning forward in the chair now, elbows digging into the tops of her legs as her nails sink into the wood of Harold's desk.

"It  _would_  be pretty sketchy though," Shaw replies, "if we were in the restaurant together just to be completely apart on the walk home."

" _Yeah_ ," John replies, the sincerity in his voice tangled in a coy web. "People from the restaurant could be walking around here."

"So, here, walk a little closer to me," Shaw tells him, and Root's blood evaporates from all the heat in her system.

"You can tone down the act a bit," Root tells her between clenched teeth; she's greeted by a wicked chuckle.

"There's nothing wrong with a little  _foreplay_ ," Shaw purrs back in a provocative manner, sending Root over the deep end.

" _Excuse_  me?" Root responds, hoping to any God listening- religious or mechanical- that she misheard. That she misheard the entire night. Another scream of wind filters into Root's ears, but her body is too hot with fury to even remember what cold is.

"You okay?" John asks Shaw, concern in his tone. "You look like you're freezing. Stand still a second, I'll give you my jacket." There is more shuffling between the two, and Root sits, foot tapping with impatience as she stares forward, eyes searing a hole into the far wall.

"You just gonna leave your hand around my waist?" Shaw asks. Before Harold even has a chance to begin to calm Root down, Root smacks a button on the keyboard hard enough to make the laptop rattle. Two lines goes dead, leaving only herself and John in the loop.

"Don't you  _dare_ , John," Root warns in a snarl, jealousy at full blast on the private line.

"A little body heat never hurt," he responds to Shaw, ignoring Root entirely. Her eyes turn to saucers as she turns them on Harold, too stunned for words. He looks equally lost, although there is a minute amount of terror behind their blue tint. Whether it be for his own safety or his friends once they return is unintelligible.

"Maybe it would be a good idea if I, uh, took the headset back now," Harold offers, hand already stretching back out. Root clamps a hand down over the earbud nearest him, making it clear he will only get it from her cold, dead body.

"And let the two of them go  _unsupervised_?" Root mutters, re-tapping the key, this time more gently. "Never."

There is the sound of delayed footsteps, coming first crisply to the headset before echoing lazily from somewhere farther away. Root and Harold turn their chairs towards the subway terminal's entrance in sync, Harold's eyes nervous and Root's homicidal. The steps come a little while longer, the echoes catching up to delayed sound before being nearly together.

John walks into the light.

He has a calm countenance with a devilish smirk in his eyes, straightening the gray suit jacket he still sports on his own person. "Look who's home," he comments, warmth in his greeting masked by humored smugness. Root doesn't even smile, lips pressed together tightly as she feels her fingers tremble in ineffable fury just upon seeing him. Putting a face to that voice- those words. It seems to have no effect on him, however, as he casually leans against the closest support beam, posture carefree- even though Root's eyes promise she's far from through with him.

High heels smacking against icy tile make Root tear her deadly gaze from Reese, turning just in time to see Shaw enter. Root is instantly overwhelmed with her vibrance. The face she hadn't seen in seven days, coy smile better than she'd remembered and brown eyes more dazzling than anything imaginable. She almost forgets her hostility at seeing Sameen-  _almost_.

But, with taking in the slim, silky dress cut in a way that couldn't compliment Shaw more, sides cut to expose her smooth skin, and a trim that only makes it to the halfway of her thighs, Root lets out a slow breath.  _Damn_ , she's attractive. Then, eyes hardening in anger, she rephrases. Damn, she's  _attractive_.

The thought leaves Root with an internal groan, blood boiling at knowing just what John was more than willing to admire all night. Shaw starts towards her, casual gate as if the dinner never happened, and Root fights to keep her stone-cold outer shell as impenetrable as possible.

"Yeah," Shaw continues, piggy-backing off of John's words. Her voice is like a serpent with a poison tongue. "You missed dinner, though. It was great." Root's ears redden at the words, and her cheeks paint with a matching blush at the smirk it brings Shaw.

Shaw stops before Root, leaning nonchalantly against the corner of Harold's desk, looking down on Root with smug eyes; Root greeting them with a furious blaze. However, with each second she spends in Shaw's company, she can feel the anger becoming harder to hold onto.

Yet, with the last, hottest part she has left, Root's hand strikes out with the speed of lightning, fingers wrapping around the bottom of the dress's looped neck-strap, dragging Shaw down until she is bent over- eye level to Root. Root keeps a harsh sneer plastered to her face as her eyes bore mercilessly into Shaw's. Shaw matches the gaze evenly, although a more than humored radiation spills from her, delight making her breath sweet as it splashes against Root's face. She forces her mind to remain clear, pushing away the intoxication Shaw brings.

With a stern lip, Root gives Shaw the slightest pull in. " _Mine_ ," she informs Shaw with a possessive air to her slow drawl. She gives her another, half-second stare down, then draws Shaw in all the way. Overshooting slightly on the distance between them, she brings Shaw into her a little more roughly than intended, knocking herself back slightly as Shaw's lips connect with hers.

At once, the relief she'd been seeking begins to flow through her, starting at her mouth and running into her veins. Pumping through her heart and spreading to every inch of her body, warm like the sun and sweet like honey. She lets her fingers slip from Shaw's collar, hands coming to her shoulders before lightly lacing behind Shaw's neck. She tries to get everything out in it. All of the missing her, all of the thinking about her, and all of the god forsaken angina she'd caused her during their mission. Shaw must get the message, for a small smile breaks on her lips, and Root draws back an inch, then two.

Her eyes open just in time to see Shaw roll her own, and it sends an army of butterflies storming through every inch of her body, invading her bones and making her fly. Shaw gives the most microscopic of head shakes, cheeks becoming less than a half shade pinker.

"All yours," she grumbles, a blush in her grudging but pleasant tone, and Root smiles. Forgetting all that's happened for the moment, she bites her lip before pulling Shaw in once more.


End file.
